White Picket Fence
by The Jolly Blue Pencil
Summary: When Crowley captures the Winchester sisters, Deanna and Sam are forced to confront their deep-seated trust issues. Genderbent!characters. AU in which there are no monsters. Rated T for torture. Please review if I should add more chapters :)


"What _is _this place?" breathed Sam. She looked down at the knife hilt buried in her stomach, blade disappearing into the folds of her shirt fabric.

Her sister shrugged, wide-eyed, and retracted the knife. It withdrew with a small _snick_. "I'd say hell, but it doesn't seem familiar to you, so..."

Sam swatted Deanna, very aware of the thick red liquid now cascading down her arm like syrup down pancakes. "For real, though. They knew our names and everything. Where are we?" Deanna stabbed her again with the knife. "Cut that out," Sam hissed.

"Huh. Never gets old. Oh, crap on a cracker," Deanna muttered. "He's coming back."

The fat, happily mustachioed director was waddling towards them. Despite everything going on, despite the confusion clouding her mind, Sam was still fascinated by the way he seemed to roll his mass forward. Like a wave heaving out of the ocean. "Well, girls, you ready? Everything's just about set up to film episode twelve." He sighed happily. "Six seasons of _Unnatural_, can you believe it? Time to go, time to go, time to go."

"Uh," Sam said. "We'll, uh, be there in a minute." She offered a patently false smile and a quick nod to the man.

He frowned a little. "Time's a-wastin'. But no hurry." The smile sprung back on his face. "I bet Sam's in no hurry to get tortured _again_, huh?" Sam started at her name, and she and Deanna tried valiantly to echo his roars of laughter. "This'll be the seventh time today, I think, so let's get it right this time," he chortled. "Stay dead."

And with one last burst of guffaws, he waddled off to his seat. Deanna and Sam exchanged glances full of utter confusion.

_Seven hours earlier_

"Okay, you gotta talk to me," snapped Deanna. "Smugglers? _Really, _Sam?"

"Listen, they're good people," argued Sam. "I mean, maybe the smuggling bit's debatable, but overall, they're good people. And the fact is, we need them!"

Deanna glared at her, taking her eyes off the night-drenched road ahead. "We _what_?"

"It's true! We can't do this job without them, and you _know _that, Deanna." Sam stared her down. "We're bounty hunters! Not detectives, not KGB, not Batman. We don't have magical access to this kind of info, and we don't have unlimited reserves of hush money. Fact is, Cass is a friend of mine. We can trust her, okay?"

"I'm sure Cass is a real angel. It's not her I'm worried about. It's the rest of her friends. How do we know they aren't gonna go to the cops, or sell us out to Crowley?"

Sam sighed. "Because Cass wouldn't do that. The rest of her smuggler team doesn't even know about us, but Cass said they're totally trustworthy. I know you don't like it, Dee, but it's the only option we got."

"No, it's not!" Deanna shouted, eyes hard as flint. "It's dangerous, Sam. Stay away from them. We don't need them, we can do this ourselves-"

"Don't tell me what to do!" Sam shouted. "You're not Mom!"

The interior of the '67 Impala went silent.

Deanna's hands tightened on the steering wheel, those words echoing over and over in her head, atonal background music accompanying the mental image of her mother. Their mother, who had gone into the bounty hunter business when their father was killed. Their mother, who was gone for days at a time and shouted more than she smiled. Their alcoholic mother, who moved them from town to town every other week, obsessed with finding the monsters that killed her husband. Deanna felt like more of a mother than Johanna Winchester had ever been to Sam.

Sam's hazel eyes were wide. "I – well, you're not," she stuttered stubbornly.

Deanna said nothing.

"I'm my own person," Sam continued. "I'm an adult, I make my own decisions, and I can take care of myself."

Deanna remained silent and expressionless.

Sam sighed and leaned against the worn leather seat. "Deanna...I know Mom told you I'm your responsibility. But that was when I was five and still smeared macaroni on the walls, okay?"

"Fine," said Deanna coolly. "Do whatever you want."

Instead of relaxing with the newfound freedom, Sam tensed. "Deanna. Listen, I..."

"No, Sam, _you _listen. You wanna go get shot full of holes by a bunch of smugglers? Be my friggin' guest. Just don't you come crying to me about it. But you don't need me anyways, right?"

"Okay, fine," said Sam. "I'll call Cass up later." Her face was set.

Deanna felt a rush of anger towards her sister. Didn't she care? Didn't she realize that Deanna just wanted to protect her, save her from their mother's fate? But it was in their blood, Deanna thought bitterly. Drilled into them by their mother's crazy training. That had been Johanna's legacy. She hadn't left her daughters diamond rings or photographs or a house when she died. Just an old car and a crap ton of bitterness.  
The sisters parked at their cheap motel and entered the room without another word. Sam flicked the light on, casting illumination across the wall, which was covered in scraps of paper. Anything relating to their current case was pinned there – newspaper clippings, suspect sketches, witness reports.

Sam went into the bathroom without another word, flipping open her phone as she did so. Deanna watched her lock the door with narrowed eyes. _Idiot_, she thought. Sam's voice floated back through the door. _Hi, Cass, whatcha got for me_?

Deanna flipped open the laptop, perhaps a little more viciously than usual. She started surfing the police report on the civilian murders again. She and her sister were fairly sure the murders were committed by a particular nasty criminal called Crowley. Crowley was the covert leader of a national crime ring, known as the 'Queen of the Crossroads' for her penchant for making deals with desperate characters. She and Sam had caught wind of the underworld character when she'd started calling in debts. Apparently, she'd given people ten years to pay her back, and when they hadn't ponied up the cash they had met dark and violent ends.

Deanna sighed. Maybe they could use some outside help on this one. There had been nothing in Mom's journal, which detailed everything she knew about the underworld, about Crowley; she was a ghost as far as information was concerned. Maybe asking Cass wasn't such a bad idea. Deanna just didn't want Sam doing it. The kid might be four inches taller than Deanna herself, and just as good with a Sig Sauer, but she was Deanna's responsibility. Adult or not.

The bathroom door opened and Sam stepped out awkwardly. She met Deanna's eyes. "Cass has a contact," she muttered.

Deanna didn't respond. They needed info, sure, but how badly?

"Balthazar. Apparently he's been to the...other side of town and knows a few things about Crowley."

"And Cass said he was trustworthy?"

"She said he'd tell us what we want, for a price. And that he'd tell us the truth. But only one of us can meet him – apparently he's a bit skittish around bounty hunters."

"Great. Well, then, I'll go meet up with this Balthazar, and you can try to dig up some more on Crowley."

Sam glared at her. "Deanna, listen, why don't I just go? I'm the one that knows Cass, he'll be more comfortable around me."

"Why? Because you're being a child about this, Sam, you're so naïve. Remember Albuquerque? And how you decided that Rubio was trustworthy?" Sam flinched, which gave Deanna a guilty feeling of gratification. As if her sister could forget Albuquerque. Sam's mistake had caused them a lot of problems, and the rift in their relationship over that particular slip-up still hadn't completely healed. Deanna still saw the guilt in Sam's eyes when she looked at her sister."You'll let your guard down, and before you know it Balthazar'll have you pinned to the wall. So I'll take this one. You stay here and do your best not to talk to strangers."

The pain in Sam's eyes nearly made Deanna take it back. Deanna knew how the mistake had kept Sam up at night. But she needed her little sister to stay here, to stay safe, and if it meant Sam was pissed but alive it was worth it.

"I can do this," said Sam in a low voice. The skin between her eyebrows was heavily creased, as if expecting a blow.

"Stay here," snapped Deanna. "Where is Balthazar supposed to be?"

Sam looked at her a moment longer, the hurt and frustration still roiling through her hazel eyes. "The warehouse on the corner of First and Price," she said and turned away, walking slowly back towards the bathroom.

Deanna stood up and grabbed her old leather jacket off the bed, making sure her handgun was loaded. "Awesome. I'll be back in a half hour. _Don't _follow me." She waited for an acknowledgment, but Sam did not turn as she closed the door behind her. Deanna felt a stab of uncertainty. Sam was obviously angry, but she was gonna have to forgive her sister soon or later. Right?

Deanna left the motel, made sure the door was tightly locked, and climbed in the matte black Impala. She loved the tiger growl of its engine. They'd had to rebuild the car, from scratch, after Albuquerque, but Deanna had made sure nothing was missing. Not the toy soldiers she and Sam had stuffed in the radiator, or their initials carved into the left backseat door. The car was home to them, a member of the family, something tying them together even through all the arguments and fights. Driving from job to job, for hours on end, saving people and hunting things – there wasn't a thing Deanna didn't know about Sam.

So she made sure she had both keys to the locked motel room, since she knew Sam was likely going to come after her, and drove off.

o0o

Sam paced the room, hands balled into fists, fuming. The door was locked. Deanna had locked her in! Didn't she trust her?

She turned and kicked the chair over. It was nice to hear it smash; the sound mimicked the furious cacophony in her head. She knew the answer to that. Of _course _Deanna didn't trust her, not after Albuquerque. Not after Rubio. She'd said as much. Sam sat on the edge of the bed, twisting her hands, feeling like her spine was slowly being extracted through her mouth. She was always careful not to let Deanna see what that night had done to her. All her sister had seen was the scar on her face and the hurt in her eyes, and Sam had been careful to stitch up the other problems, physical and otherwise, herself. The only issue she couldn't heal was her sister's misgivings. So she had to get to that warehouse, before Deanna. She had to prove to her sister that she could be trusted. That she was smart enough to make her own decisions, strong enough to protect herself, good enough to make the right choices.

_Sorry, Dee_, she thought for the thousandth time. _I'm sorry about Albuquerque, I'm sorry I left you for Stanford, I'm sorry Mom's dead and there was nothing we could do to stop it. I'm sorry you were left with an idiot sister that made all the wrong choices._

Sam had tried, once, to live her own life. To set Deanna free of the burden of protecting her younger sister. Despite all the moving around, Sam had gotten excellent grades, and had gotten into Stanford Law. She'd lasted two years before Deanna had shown up in the middle of the night and asked for help on a job. And then another, and another, until Mom had been killed and law school sounded about as realistic as Hogwarts.

So, yeah, living life away from Deanna was not really an option. Sam just wished her sister knew how sorry she was. Because although she couldn't live without Dee, she could barely live with her the way things were.

She tried the door again. Still locked, of course. And she couldn't break the lock, or someone might come running. And it wasn't as if she could flash her fake badge at it (although it was a pretty good counterfeit; being an experienced vigilante bounty hunter did have its perks). Then an idea struck her.

Re-entering the bathroom, she looked out the window at the ground below. Their room was on the second story, but there was a ledge halfway down. If she could just land on that...she could probably make it without major injury. Sam ran back into the room to grab her gun, stuffed it into her jacket, and dashed back into the bathroom. She threw open the window. It was tiny, maybe two feet by two and a half feet, but Johanna's training wasn't for nothing; Sam and Deanna had the flexibility of snakes. But Sam was still five foot eight (Deanna called her Sam the Giraffe) and folding herself through the window was painful and difficult. Finally she got her shoulders through.

Then, with a sickening jump in her stomach, she was plummeting towards the earth. The ledge struck her back and she cried out, and suddenly her face was buried in the cement. Sam passed out.

o0o

Deanna waited in the warehouse cautiously, gun held discreetly by her side. "Uh, Balthazar?" she called again hesitantly into the dim light. She'd been here nearly an hour waiting after she'd realized Sam hadn't given her a time to meet this Balthazar.

She froze as a long, thin shape unfolded itself from the shadows. "Hello, darling," a voice purred. Balthazar had a pointed, sly, catlike face and languid limbs that moved carelessly. His v-neck t-shirt would have been scandalously low had he been a woman. As it was it made her even more uncomfortable than she already was. One look into his unfathomable eyes and Deanna felt officially ill at ease. "Fancy seeing you here. Dear Cassie didn't mention a time, so how wonderful we both showed up when we did." He had a voice like the Mediterranean. Mild, balmy, flowing.

Deanna stayed impassive. "Yeah, I guess. What do you know about Crowley?"

"Ah ah," murmured Balthazar mildly. He flowed forward, feline in his grace. "I'm not that kind of girl. You pay before I deliver, Samevieve." Deanna didn't say anything, but something must have flickered in her eyes, because Balthazar paused. "You _are _Samantha Winchester, correct?"

"Er," hemmed Deanna, "not exactly – "

And suddenly Balthazar was so close she could feel his breath on her face. There was a cold light against her throat. Steel. "Ah, darling, didn't Mummy ever teach you not to talk to strangers? Care to tell me your name? And how you found me?" Balthazar's voice was still a cat's purr, but it had a lion's growl in its undercurrents now.

Deanna ducked the knife and pointed her gun at him. "Whoa there, easy, Tony the Tiger," she said. "Sam's my sister. Cass told me where to find you."

"And yet, the bonds of sisterhood can be as easily forgotten in intrigue as in a friendly game of Monopoly. Perhaps you sundered those bonds with that gun after finding out my location. I'll ask again, how did you find me? Your sister is not here to back you up, nor is Cassie, and I'm afraid I shan't take your sultry words at face value." His knife was glinting again in the dim light, joined now by a smoky grey gun in the other hand.

"I'm here," came a voice from the shadows.

Deanna spun around. "_Sam_?"

Her sister looked at her in disgust, but it was a miserably failed attempt due to the swollen lip and badly bruised face. Sam looked more like a clown who'd just gotten kicked out of the circus.

"Sam, what happened? Are you all right?" Deanna ran over to her, momentarily disregarding Balthazar and his two unfriendly companions. "What the crap are you thinking, coming over here? I told you to stay put!"

"I had to fall out of a friggin' _window _to get here, so shut up, Deanna," her sister said angrily. "You and I are having a talk later, because you locking me in a motel room is so _not _okay – "

"Ooh, sounds sexy," Balthazar interrupted. "Mind if I join?"

Sam looked past her anxious sister at the informant, who still hadn't lowered his weapons. "I'm Sam," she said. "What can you tell us about Crowley?"

Balthazar sighed. "Really? You too? Money first, darling. Them's the rules. I am not that kind of girl – why does everyone keep thinking I am? Is it the shirt?"

Sam refocused on her sister. "Give him the money, Deanna." Deanna looked at her sharply at the use of her full name. Sam never used her full name...she must be really, _really _pissed. Aw crap. Deanna took the wad of cash out of her pocket and threw it to Balthazar, who dropped his knife and caught the bundle one-handed and raised it daintily to his pointed nose.

"Ah, smell that? That's the smell of my new silk bathrobe," he murmured. "Many thanks, my dears."

"Crowley?" demanded Sam impatiently.

"Ah, yes. Queen of the Crossroads. One of my – er, less savory – connections mentioned seeing one of her henchmen at the Blue Swordfish yesterday. Bit of a dive, but really quite lovely if you want to find – "

"Someone say my name?"

Deanna decided, somewhere between raising her gun and firing it, that she was really sick of people looming up out of the shadows of an abandoned warehouse.

Her first shot missed, as did her second. Beside her, Sam was firing too, but the newcomer was moving too quickly in and out of sight to make an easy target. Then Sam yelled in pain, and her gun went clattering to the ground. "Sa-" Deanna began to yell as she turned.

And then Deanna made the decision that she was also really, _really_ sick of having sharp things anywhere near the vicinity of her throat. A silver streak was bouncing against her neck again. She raised fearful eyes to see that Sam was struggling in the arms of another two captors. One of them socked her in the stomach, and she screamed, short and staccato.

"Stop it," roared Deanna. The person holding her hit her across the face.

Someone lurked in her peripheral vision. "Hello, girls," said a low, raspy voice. The person from the shadows slinked into view, holding a very still, barely conscious Balthazar by the collar with one hand and grasping a blade in the other. It was a woman, darkeyed and lovely in a wild sort of way, with a formal power suit barely cloaking the feral, dominant stance. There was a snarl lurking on her face under a professionally detached smile."Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I thought it was time to meet in person."

"C-crowley?" managed Sam. She was very pale and breathing shallowly, as if she had a broken rib.

"The same. And you are the Winchesters, correct? Can I get a signature?"

"Bite me," ground out Deanna. This time the moron holding her kneed her in the back. All the breath went out of her.

"Easy, kitten," Crowley rasped. "Retract those claws. I heard what they did to Rubio. Oh, don't look so surprised. You two are legendary here in the underworld now. Well, especially you, Moose," she shot at Sam casually. "I must admit, your reputation made me think this would be a bit harder. But the Winchesters aren't quite the hunters they're made out to be."

"So what now?" said Deanna roughly, to take her attention off Sam. "What, you fill our shoes with cement and sink us in the Missouri?"

Crowley shuddered in repulsion. "Even _you _are too clean for those waters." She eyed Deanna's scuffed leather jacket in disgust, and smoothed her own tailored power suit. "No, first I intimidate you, then I torture you, then you tell me what I need to know. I think that's eminently fair, I'm doing the work in two out of three of those."

"Yeah, good luck with that," spat Sam.

Crowley rolled her eyes. "Such bravado, Moose. Word is you withstood Nick Gate's torture, and, well, the Queen of the Crossroads must pale in comparison to the Devil." Deanna was proud that Sam didn't flinch at the name. After Rubio had betrayed her sister, Deanna had gotten there in minutes. But the 'Devil', newly escaped from prison, had had that long with Sam to prove why he'd earned his nickname. Sam still had a scar on her face. "But trust me, I'm handy with a knife." And with that, the woman plunged her knife into the motionless Balthazar. Sam's eyes went wide in horror and Deanna felt her heart stop as Balthazar opened his eyes with a brief gasp of pain. Then his feline eyes went dark. He did not move again. Crowley let him fall carelessly, brushing at her immaculate suit and pushing her dark hair over her shoulders. "And goodbye to another sewer rat," she murmured in her gravelly voice. Deanna could not take her eyes off Balthazar. How many times had she seen a dead body? The family business hadn't exactly been a carriage ride in the park. She'd seen plenty of stiffs. But Balthazar...she'd talked to him. He hadn't been just another faceless vic.

Sam's breaths were heaving out now, and Deanna wasn't sure if it was because of the broken rib or some strong emotion. "You _demon_ woman," Sam hissed. "You didn't have to do that!" _Wow, gold star, sis, now shut up shut up shut up before this crazy woman stabs you_.

"That v-neck was offensive," stated Crowley offhandedly. "I did my civic duty, but that seems to have offended you. Feeling intimidated yet, darling? Good. Time for round two." She snapped her fingers at some other minion standing behind Deanna, who handed her a wooden case. She opened it to reveal a glass syringe. "I was going to save this for Balthazar, that dirty snitch, but seeing as he's dead, it would be a waste of resources. Lucky you," she growled.

Deanna struggled against her captors as Crowley strode up to Sam, who showed no trace of fear, but continued to scorch the stocky woman with furious eyes. "I'm gonna kill you," Sam seethed.

"Lovely sentiment," remarked Crowley unconcernedly. She placed the needle against Sam's neck.

_I am really, really, REALLY sick of people pointing things at us. _"No!" yelled Deanna. "Stop! Do it to me, I'll tell you what you want."

Crowley paused. "But you're going to do that anyways. And what's the point of storytime if there's no background music? Atmosphere, you understand. Nothing sets the mood quite like screams of agony." The syringe emptied of liquid, and Crowley flung it away, baring her teeth. Sam went limp.

"_Sam!_" screamed Deanna.

o0o

Crowley watched, fascinated, as the younger Winchester flopped boneless like a wet noodle. The other girl was screaming, but all Crowley could hear was the sweet sound of Winchester junior's soft moans. _And so it begins. Like the tuning before a symphony._ This prototype was a special cocktail she'd mixed up herself, designed specially to induce horrific pain and hallucinations. If it was mixed right, it was supposed to trigger a full-blown psychotic episode. Just another fun day with Crowley and friends.

"What did you do to her, you – "

Crowley interrupted before the expletive. "Something very painful, something very much illegal, something very Tarantino. I'm a big fan. Samantha here is now drifting off into psycho-Saturday."

"I will get free," said Deanna in a very low, deadly voice. Her face was a blank mask. In fact, she seemed almost calm and very certain, which to be honest scared Crowley more than if she had been screaming. "I will get free, I will get my hands on a knife and I will make you scream. And then I will stop, leaving you near death, begging for death, bleeding out on a cold stone floor. And then, _and then_, maybe after a few hours, I will give you mercy."

Crowley applauded. The sound echoed off the cold stone floor of the warehouse, and she bit back a shudder. Cold stone floor. "You're obviously a fan too. Impeccable delivery, but all the awards to Moose here, I'm afraid – she's the main attraction, after all." Winchester the elder's head snapped around as she stared at her sister helplessly. Sam's spine was arching preternaturally, and broken sounds lurched their way out of her mouth. Crowley stared at Deanna's face, fascinated by the unearthly look of reflected torture. She felt in control once again. Well, she had never felt out of control, but the helplessness on Winchester's face reminded her that _she _was the one in the power suit.

"Sam here is undergoing some severe psychosis," said Crowley smoothly. "Hallucinations that will permanently damage her brain...unless she's given the antidote, which I coincidentally happen to possess."

"What do you want?" the other forced through gritted teeth.

"Information. You two bats of the underworld have flitted about through more schemes and plots than anyone," answered Crowley. "Azazel, Gordie Walker, Mug Masters. And a dozen others. I'm sure you've picked up plenty of juicy tidbits along the way." Keeping her shoulders and stance wide, hands in pockets, she walked up to the dirty blonde woman. Winchester hung loosely from the henchman's arms, eyes following Crowley closely like a cornered animal's. "But what I'm most worried about is Nick Gate. Now, I'm no saint, but I look like Michael the archangel next to him. Rumor is that he's prepared to start an all out guerilla war against anyone who's in his way. So what I need you to tell me is, how do I get out of his way?" Crowley took the woman's chin in her hand tightly, relishing the look of hate that flooded Winchester's eyes. "What is he planning, Squirrel?"

She remained silent. Crowley allowed a moment of respect for her grit, then smashed her nose with an open hand. It broke, and Crowley stepped back hastily to avoid the spurt of blood. Still the woman remained quiet. No shriek of pain, just crushing hatred blazing in her eyes.

"What is he planning?" shouted Crowley. "Tell me!"

Silence.

It went on for nearly two hours. Winchester was now copiously bleeding from several places now, but her mouth was still locked tight. Crowley was worked up to a sweat. Obviously Winchester realized that the only thing keeping her and her sister alive was the fact that they had information Crowley wanted. Pain and fear seemed to have no hold on her. In fact, the only time she had shown anything but pure animosity had been...

In three steps Crowley was at the wooden case, which was on the ground, forgotten. She pulled out the only item inside and showed it to Deanna. "This is the antidote," she said coolly. Winchester's eyes flickered. "As you can see, it's a glass bottle. And since I'm in a VERY BAD MOOD, there EVERY CHANCE that I will ACCIDENTALLY DROP IT. And then our poor Samantha would be left utterly helpless in the grips of her own mind." The woman did not move, but Crowley could see the fear in her eyes. She felt a rush of triumph as she replaced the syringe carefully back into the box. "Now _tell me what the Devil is planning_."

Winchester was on the verge, Crowley could see it. Finally! Something to show for her efforts. The bloody lips trembled with words...

o0o

Present

o0o

"What's going on?" muttered Deanna. "Is this like some sort of, I don't know, shared drug trip? Like an LSD mind meld? Sam, hugs not drugs."

"Get your head out of the sixties," said Sam impatiently. "He mentioned a – a TV show, didn't he? _Unnatural_. And he said something about me getting tortured? What if we're in the TV show? What if this is an episode of Punk'd or something, where they made a fake TV show about our lives?"

"Oh, no, I hate reality TV," mumbled Deanna. She plunged the knife into Sam again. Sam felt an odd phantom pain in her stomach.

"Dude, cut it out with the trick knife. Not funny."

"Aw, c'mon, it's awesome! How many other times have you seen a collapsible knife? Look, the blade just disappears when you push it."

Sam gave her a look. "We need to get this makeup off, and then get back to...what were we doing?" She frowned. The haze in her mind seemed to get a little thicker. What had they been doing before this?

"Yeah, that fake blood's creepin' me out," said Deanna. "I keep thinking of strawberry syrup and I get this sudden urge to eat your arm."

"What is _wrong – _"

"Hey, lookie, civilians," said Deanna cheerfully. "Let's ask them what's going on." She walked over to a woman in a trench coat, who was sitting alone and looking around furtively. Sam followed, wincing slightly at the pain in her middle. What was going on? That had been a trick knife, not a real one.

By the time she reached them, Deanna was deep in conversation with Trench Coat. "Low ratings, you say?" Deanna said seriously, and winked at Sam.

"Yes," said the pale, darkhaired woman seriously. "The show might get canceled."

"Sam, this is Cass," introduced Deanna.

Sam stared into the woman's clear blue eyes. "Do I know you?" Cass, Cass...the name rolled around on her tongue. It rang something in her memory, as if she was looking through a gauzy veil at something beyond.

"I feature on this show alongside you," said Cass. She had an odd way of speaking, almost robotically, with precise vowels and measured words. "I am one of the main characters on the show."

"Oh, yeah, apparently we're big time Ghostbusters on _Unnatural_," said Deanna. "You and me, hunting things. I guess that's what this is for." And she stabbed Sam again with the fake knife. Sam gasped at the pain, no longer phantom but piercing. It felt as if it had penetrated the first layer of skin – not as damaging as a real knife, but still stinging.

"Cut that out."

"Yes, you...hunt things," said Cass in confusion. "But you know that, of course."

"Yeah, just testing you," said Sam quickly. She searched Cass's blue eyes, but the woman looked guileless. Not like a member of some stupid reality TV show. _What's going on?_

"Incoming," muttered Deanna. The director and his mustache were fast approaching, both twitching impatiently.

"Time to go, time to go, time to go," he chattered. Sam felt a shift in the atmosphere. Something was very, very wrong, but she didn't know what it was. "Time to go time to go timetogotimetogo..." He was saying it over and over like a skipping gramophone. Like a looped video. His neck twitched and his head lolled to one side. "Timetogotimetogotimetogotimetogo – "

"'Go' means 'die',"said Cass seriously. Her blue eyes seemed to float in the air in front of Sam. "Die. Die. Die. You abomination. You traitor. Time to die."

And Deanna was laughing, more lightheartedly than Sam had ever heard her, stabbing Sam in the ribs with the fake knife methodically. Except the knife wasn't fake, it was real, and it was carving a space between her ribs and Sam could feel her heart squeezing out through the space, out into the open air, choked by the pure oxygen...

And suddenly the Director was no longer mustachioed, but tall and handsome. He had vaguely lion-ish features: tawny hair, golden eyes, well defined mouth, loping walk. He strode up to Sam.

"Hey there, Sam," he said in a friendly voice. "Miss me? It's been a while."

"Nick," she said.

"Time to go," he said. And suddenly the set had vanished around her, Cass and Deanna were gone and there was nothing but the fire between her ribs. She was back in the dingy old convent in Albuquerque. It had the look of a place long abandoned. Dusty pews faced an old but stately podium. Nick stood behind it, resting his hands on it like a pastor.

"Ah, old times," he said brightly. "This was our first date, Sam! Remember? You wore that nice red dress." He snapped his fingers and she was wearing a tattered white shirt drenched in red. She winced and doubled over as the knife wound blossomed with blood. "Oh, and Rubio was third-wheeling." With another snap, a dark haired, intense eyed man was sitting in the pews.

"C'mon, Sam," he coaxed. "Nick's not that bad a guy, all you gotta do is get the cuffs off him. I've seen you do it a million times, Sam."

"Just like old times!" Nick crowed, advancing towards her. "You so _desperate _to prove yourself, Rubio egging you on...and then, the cuffs were off, I found this lovely piece of cutlery, and we started to have some real fun!"

Sam whimpered. Nick's image seemed doubled, superimposed on itself, past mirroring present as he picked up a long knife. Someone held her arms behind her and she screamed and twisted. She caught a glimpse – two shimmering people, Rubio and Deanna, held her arms behind her back, wearing identical expressions of vicious pleasure.

"It's been so long," said one Nick, putting his lips to her ear delicately. "In prison all we get are spoons. No knives. Not even sporks; it's a travesty. Of course you can always gouge someone's eye out if you get moody, but it's so much more fun to inflict pain the right way. And now that I'm out..." the other Nick traced her mouth with the knife. Then, without warning, he embedded it in her arm. She screamed.

"Ah, yes," he breathed. "Just what I've been missing." Sam sobbed in pain and terror as the two Nicks before her laughed in harmony. One of them made a delicate cut along the length of her collarbone. "See, this is the sketchy bit," he explained. "You gotta make sure not to cut too deep, or you risk losing the poor creature. Deanna, did you want a turn?"

And suddenly Deanna was the one in front of Sam, smiling and holding the knife like a violin bow ready to screech over tortured strings. "Time to go," she said. "You little traitor, did you think I'd just forgive you? You're gonna pay, over and over and over for what you did. You think I trust you? Of _course _I trust you. I trust you to die screaming in pain like you deserve. Time to go, Sammie." And she laughed long and carefree and sweet as she opened up Sam's stomach with the knife like an envelope with a letter opener...

And suddenly the image went fuzzy. Black spots interspersed with the blasts of exquisite pain. Sam whimpered again as she felt a stabbing pain in her neck and fire trailing down her throat. Deanna and her knife were frozen, flickering like the signal was interrupted, only her mouth moving. "Time."

_Sam..._a staticky voice whispered in the back of her head.

"To.

_Wake up!_

"Go."

_Sam!_

o0o

Deanna heaved her little sister along as gently as she could, conscious of the trail of blood trailing their tracks. Around them, gunfire raged, and Deanna tried to cover Sam's limp form as best she could. Finally they were safe behind a row of dusty shipping containers.

"Sam, wake up," she muttered. "Sam! C'mon, no naps till the job's done, you can sleep as much as you want after, I just need you to wake up now..." Her hands were scrabbling frantically at the wooden box, flicking open the latch and holding the syringe in shaking fingers. "Cass and her angel gang's here, driving off Crowley. We're good. I think Crowley's dead, which is a shame because I think tearing into him would be therapeutic, y'know?" She pressed the needle against Sam's throat and emptied it. "And see, right there's the part where you tell me that I definitely need a different kind of therapy. Feel free to – to jump in – any time," and then she was sobbing brokenly across her sister's unmoving body, throwing the useless, empty antidote and hearing it smash, hearing her last hope shatter into shards.

"Just wake up," she sobbed. "I'll never lock you up again, just wake up...it's time to go."

The gunfire ceased and she didn't care. Nothing mattered but the fact that Sam's screams had cut off a while ago. That she was now deathly still. That the scar on her face was standing out like a neon sign, advertising that the one time she had needed Deanna, Deanna hadn't been there.

And then, Deanna heard a moan. She lifted her head, unbelieving, to see her sisters eyes roving weakly. "I'll hol' ya to tha'," she mumbled. Deanna held her face in her hands gently.

"Good morning, soldier," she said. "How you feeling?"

"Like crap onna cracker," managed Sam, and then she was laughing brokenly and Deanna was laughing brokenly and everything felt so broken, and nothing was funny, but they were both alive and that was something to be happy about.

"No more lockin' the door?"

"Nope," said Deanna. "No more timeouts." She tore off the bottom of her shirt and began binding Sam's ribs carefully. "And don't you dare tell me you can do this yourself or I swear I'll break your face, punk. Of course I _trust _you can do it yourself, but..."

Sam stared at her, eyes suddenly laid naked with pain. _Awesome job, Deanna. Way to reopen the old scars on the talking wound. _

"I do trust you, Sam, you know that," she said quickly. "I was just kidding."

"No, no, 's fine," her sister slurred, face going slack as Deanna tightened the makeshift bandage. "Jus'...y' didn' hafta stab me, Dee." _Fabulous_. Now Sam was hurt AND delirious.

"Okay, Sam. Sorry about the, uh, stabbing."

" 'M sorry, Dan," whispered Sam. "Sorry 'bout Nick. 'S prob'ly a good thing you stabbed me, I deserve it..."

Crowleys' voice suddenly echoed in Deanna's head. _Sam here is undergoing some severe psychosis. Hallucinations that will permanently damage her brain._ Oh crap crap crapola.

"What did you see, Sam?" she asked sharply.

Sam looked surprised and sleepy. "You 'n Cass...'n Rubio...and Nick...doncha remember? You were there, Dee. You 'n Nick."

Deanna's thoughts were lightyears past _crapola _now as she put the pieces together.

"I let you down, Dee," said Sam seriously. " 'N I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"No, no, it's okay, sis," whispered Deanna. "I forgive you. I'm sorry, Sam, I didn't know you still blamed yourself. I – I love you, okay? I trust you." Sentiments did not come easily to Deanna, but she could tell Sam needed to hear it. And Deanna needed to say it. Her poor sister...Deanna had known that the past weighed on her, but she had never dreamed it had been this heavy. She had never imagined that her sister's worst nightmare would be her own older sister cutting her open alongside the Devil.

Sam smiled softly and her eyes closed. Deanna watched her drift off into more peaceful sleep, the smile still resting on her face. Once she was sure Sam was sleeping and not unconscious, Deanna got to her feet, walked a short distance away, and threw up. A hand rested on her shoulder, and Deanna turned to see the peaceful blue eyes of Cass.

"Deanna," said the woman. Deanna let herself relax a little in the rhythm of Cass's clipped, formal words. "Crowley has been driven off. We think he's mortally injured, but he got in a car and made his escape before we could catch up. How is Sam?"

"She's – she's alive," said Deanna. "Sleeping, banged up, but alive. Good thing you showed up when you did."

"I got worried when I did not hear from Sam. We will get her to a hospital," said Cass resolvedly. "Everything will be fine, Deanna. Don't worry. Sam will be all right." Deanna stared into her calm ocean eyes and felt better.

"Getting poisoned, going to the hospital, the family business," she muttered. Cass looked confused. "It's kind of a constant thing for Winchesters," explained Deanna.

"Perhaps you ought to find a different occupation," suggested Cass. She nodded at several of her smugglers, who picked Sam up carefully and began carrying her away. Deanna pondered Cass's words. They weren't said in a judgmental tone. It was more as if Cass was just wondering how things would be different for the sisters if they quit hunting. Better? Worse? And for the first time, as Deanna trailed Sam's sleeping body, she actually considered the prospect of quitting the life. Of settling down and getting a normal job. Sam could go back to law school. Deanna could putz around in some hokey secretary job or something to support them. After she tracked down Crowley and destroyed her, of course.

"Maybe we ought to," replied Deanna with a faint smile. They could have a house with a white picket fence. A dog, even. The same clothes every week, with no bloodstains or tears. And she and Sam could heal. Drive around the neighborhood in the Impala and just talk about stupid things. Slowly build hope again. Build trust.

She wanted that white picket fence.


End file.
